In a Perfect World

by Trish Doller

  “Whoa.” The word whooshes out of me as we reach the base of the Great Pyramid. If it was breathtaking from a distance, it is mind-blowing up close. I lean back to look at the top. From this angle, it appears to go on forever, and the passing clouds make it seem as if it could topple over on us, even though centuries of existence say otherwise.

  “We can go inside if you want,” Tarek says. “It’s basically a very narrow and hot passageway to the main chamber. I’ve taken people who think it’s an Indiana Jones experience not to be missed, while others wished they’d saved their money. Your mileage may vary, but this time of year it will be superhot. Honestly, as cheesy as it seems, riding a camel over to the Sphinx is a lot more fun.”

  “I’m not sure I like how the animals are treated around here,” Mom says.

  “There are some pretty shady operations,” he says. “Desperate circumstances make people do desperate things for money, but I found a guy I trust and we worked out a deal. I bring my business solely to him, he gives me a fair price, and no hassles over taking pictures.”

  Mom looks at me. “What do you think?”

  Which is how I end up on the back of a camel named Sylvester Stallone.

  CHAPTER 11

  I was about nine or ten—and going through a horse-crazy phase—when Dad took me to a riding stable a few times. Riding a camel is nothing at all like being on horseback. First, the saddle is wider and longer with no stirrups, so I hang on for dear life, trying not to fall off the camel’s back as he lifts up on his spindly legs. Second, the camel walks with an uneven, bumpy gait that makes it hard to predict which direction the next step might jolt me.

  But as the camels caravan their way through the desert in a straight line, I finally relax enough to ease my grip on the saddle and take pictures of the pyramids, Amjad the camel man, and my mother, bumping along on a camel called Marilyn Monroe. Total tourist. I snap a shot of Sylvester Stallone’s sand-colored ears and, after we dismount at the Sphinx, take a photo of his grumpy camel face with gnarly teeth almost smiling at me—or trying to bite me. It’s hard to tell for sure.

  “So what did you think about the camels?” Tarek asks, leading us to the Sphinx. Like the pyramids, I didn’t realize just how massive the statue was until now, as I find myself dwarfed by one of the enormous paws.

  “It was pretty fun,” I say, positioning myself next to Mom so Tarek can take our picture. “But I do kind of wonder what it would have been like to go inside a pyramid. Maybe I’ll do that another day.”

  “Since you’re going to be here for a year, my suggestion is to wait until the heat breaks,” he says. “And then go to the Red Pyramid in Dahshūr. Same experience, fewer crowds.”

  We walk around the entire statue, and Tarek explains that the most common belief among Egyptologists is that the face of the Sphinx was meant to represent Pharaoh Khafre. “Some theorize that the Sphinx was built before the pyramids in the shape of a lion and was altered to look like a pharaoh at a later date. But the layers of rock match the layers of other structures during Khafre’s reign, which suggests he was the one who built it. No one truly knows for sure, and I think we could study the plateau for another millennium and never have all the answers. It’s fun to try, though.”

  Mr. Elhadad is waiting for us in the parking lot closest to the Sphinx when we finish taking pictures and say good-bye to Tarek.

  “So why did you recommend an American instead of an Egyptian guide?” Mom asks as we tumble into Mr. Elhadad’s car, slightly sunburned and hungry.

  “Tarek is Egyptian. Perhaps he does not need the money so much as the locals, but he understands that customer happiness comes before baksheesh.” Mr. Elhadad rubs his fingers together in a gesture many Egyptians use to indicate they want a tip for their services. “I was this way once, but Tarek taught me about TripAdvisor and I have changed. If people are happy with Tarek, they will be happy with me, and good reviews bring new customers to us all. Maybe this is not the Egyptian way, but one day my children will be married and I want to have the money for their weddings.”

  Since I was born, my parents have been putting money into my college fund. They’ve never once discussed saving money to pay for a wedding. “What about college?” I ask.

  “There is no cost for university in Egypt,” Mr. Elhadad explains. “When I was young, my family could not afford to live without my income, so I was unable to attend university. My wife, my son, and I have worked hard so Aya may go.”

  I know my family would make those kinds of sacrifices for each other, but we’ve been lucky that we’ve never had to do it. I can’t help thinking about the intense pressure that Aya must be facing. The first to go to college. The expectation that she will succeed. I glance at my mom, whose eyes seem to reflect what I’ve been thinking. She reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze.

  On our way through Giza, Mr. Elhadad suggests we stop for a snack, and I am not even slightly surprised when he stops at the koshary shop where Adam works.

  The restaurant is shabby yet opulent, with crystal chandeliers and a tiered fountain in the middle of the dining room. Kind of over-the-top for a place that sells koshary, but it is packed with people. Some wait for their orders at the long takeaway counter, while others are seated in the dining room.

  Adam stands behind the counter, dressed like an actual chef as he dishes koshary with assembly-line speed from a huge metal bowl into the plastic takeaway tubs. His efficiency is impressive, and the way his eyebrows pull together as he concentrates makes me smile. I watch him work until my mom elbows me and I turn away to find the waiter standing at the table, waiting to take our order. Mr. Elhadad wears a curious expression, as if he has discovered a secret about me, and I wonder if maybe he has. The heat that creeps up the back of my neck makes me think so.

  Unlike the day Adam ordered koshary to go, the waiter brings us plates of pasta and lentils with side dishes of chickpeas, onions, and tomato sauce so we can mix our own proportions. There are also small dishes of garlic oil and spicy pepper sauce.

  “It’s comfort food,” I say, and a look of wonder crosses my mother’s face. I like having this bit of local knowledge, even though I am still very much a stranger in Cairo. It might be a small thing, but it’s another step forward. I choose more pasta and chickpeas, fewer lentils, to make my own custom koshary.

  Mom takes a tentative bite as Mr. Elhadad tucks in a bigger mouthful. “My wife would not be pleased to know I am eating koshary because she worries I eat it too often, but we will not tell her, okay?”

  “Your secret’s safe with us,” my mom says.

  I wonder if Adam might come over to say hello, but the restaurant is constantly busy. As we pass the takeaway counter on our way out, Mr. Elhadad calls out a greeting to his son. Adam raises a quick hand to wave at his father and surprise registers in his eyes when he notices me. He doesn’t wave to me—his attention turns immediately back to his work—but this time I don’t take it personally.

  “He is a hard worker,” his father says, the pride thick in his voice, as we get back in the car. “I think one day he will be a great chef.”

  After the sun, food, and trekking around in the desert heat, I am ready to go home for a nap. Mr. Elhadad starts the ignition, then pauses, placing a hand on his chest.

  “Are you okay?” Mom asks.

  “Just a bit of indigestion.” Sweat trickles down his temple and he fishes a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe it away, laughing. “My punishment, I think, for wanting to keep the koshary secret from my wife.”

  “Are you feeling any discomfort in your chest? A squeezing sensation?” Mom asks. “Indigestion is sometimes a symptom of a heart attack.”

  “No, no, no, it’s nothing so dramatic—” His words drop off as he draws in a sharp breath. “Or perhaps I am wrong.”

  “Should we call an ambulance?” I ask.

  “Too much traffic,” Mr. Elhadad gasps. “An ambulance is no good.”

  I throw open the car door.

>   “I’ll be right back,” I call out as I run back toward the shop. Adam looks up as I come in alone. “Your dad is having a heart attack,” I say. “We need you to drive.”

  He says something in Arabic to another man behind the counter, who gives a quick nod of assent. Adam rushes out from behind the counter, shoves his way through the crowd, and runs to the car. Mom has helped Mr. Elhadad into the backseat and is instructing him to chew an aspirin tablet as Adam flings himself behind the wheel. The doors are barely shut behind us when he pulls out into traffic, cutting off another car and earning an angry, prolonged honk.

  From the front seat I look into the back, where Mr. Elhadad has released the top button on his shirt. His face is pale and sweat rolls down his cheeks, but Mom has her hand wrapped around his. I know from experience that she is telegraphing reassurance, helping him feel calmer. That’s her superpower, even when there is nothing else she can do.

  “We’ll find you a male doctor when we get to the hospital,” she teases, keeping her tone light and a smile on her face. “But for now you are stuck with me.”

  “Adam is a terrible driver,” I add. “So it won’t take long.”

  Mr. Elhadad gives a weak laugh. “With this team looking after me, I have nothing to fear.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Mr. Elhadad is sitting up when we arrive at his hospital room a couple of days later. We brought him to the emergency room in time and the heart attack was not severe, but the doctor decided to admit him for a few days of observation. Mr. Elhadad still looks a little pale and tired, but he is smiling.

  “Is this a good time?” My mother holds up an old Steve McQueen movie on DVD and a box of really nice chocolates. “We come bearing gifts.”

  “Oh yes,” Mr. Elhadad says, beckoning us forward. “Please come in.”

  Sitting in a chair beside the bed is his wife, wearing a long heather-gray dress with a red hijab, and in a second chair is a girl who glances up from her cell phone as Mom and I enter the room.

  Mr. Elhadad introduces us, explaining that Mom saved his life. It could be argued that Adam’s insane driving probably had more to do with it, but his wife looks so happy to see my mother.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Elhadad says, hugging Mom.

  They launch into conversation—a little English, a little Arabic—as Aya and I size each other up. She has the same dark eyes as her father. Her mustard-yellow maxi dress, faded denim jacket, and leopard-print hijab that matches her shoes are seriously cute.

  “I like your outfit,” I say.

  She smiles. “I was thinking the same about yours.”

  The backs of my knees are sweating inside the rolled-up jeans that I paired with a navy paisley mini-dress. I don’t know how Aya can stand wearing so much clothing. Maybe living under the Egyptian sun her entire life has made her immune to the heat, because her makeup doesn’t look like it is melting off her face the way mine does. “Thank you.”

  “I am excited to meet you. My father says only that you are a girl about my own age.” She speaks slowly, maybe because she’s translating Arabic to English in her head first. Which is impressive in itself. English is a complicated language. “And Adam tells me nothing, no matter how often I ask.”

  “There’s really not much to know,” I say. “But Adam didn’t say much about you, either. Only that you’re hoping to go to college.”

  “Yes,” she says. “I would like to study engineering, inshallah.”

  “What is inshallah?”

  “If it is God’s will.”

  Grandma Rose has a favorite saying that goes: “If the good Lord is willing and the creek don’t rise,” which sounds similar to inshallah, albeit a little more colloquial. But it really brings to mind the part of the Lord’s Prayer where we say “thy will be done.” Either way, Christian or Muslim, it seems like we all hope we’re on the same page with God.

  “Inshallah, then.”

  “Thank you.” Her smile grows, dimpling her cheek. “Will you go to university too?”

  “Yes,” I say. “But I haven’t applied to any schools yet—I’ll be doing that this fall—and I’m not sure what I want to study.”

  Aya’s eyes widen. “You do not have to choose a program?”

  “Well, some people know what they want to study, but others wait to decide on a major until after they’ve taken some classes,” I explain. “I’ve been thinking about anthropology, but I’ve also considered sociology and communications. So I think I’ll wait and see.”

  “You are fortunate,” she says. “Here, your test scores decide which areas of study are open to you. If you meet the score of your preferred subject, you have a better chance of being placed in that program.”

  “What if you don’t get your preferred subject?”

  “Then that is also God’s will,” she says. “But if I work very hard and score high on the exam, there is a strong chance I will not be disappointed.”

  I’m glad I don’t have to leave my future to fate, but if this is how it’s done in Egypt, I admire Aya for rolling with it when she could be freaking out. “That sounds like a good plan.”

  She says something to her parents in Arabic and Mrs. Elhadad’s light brown eyes—just like Adam’s eyes—appraise me. It feels as if she is judging me, and I wonder if her husband told her about the way I stared at their son in the koshary shop. My face grows warm under her scrutiny, but then she nods.

  “There’s a McDonald’s just next door,” Aya says. “I asked if you and I might go there together for a drink.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Mom and I walked from our apartment, which is just down the block from the hospital. She says, “I’ll see you at home.”

  Outside, with our parents left behind, Aya says, “I hope this is not too personal to ask, but I have never met an American girl my own age before. Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “I did,” I say. “But we broke up before I moved.”

  “Did you kiss him?”

  There were nights when Owen and I kissed for hours, until our lips were puffy and our tongues were sore. There were other times—not nearly as often—that his hand would creep under my shirt while we were making out. The answer is more complicated than a simple yes or no, but I tell her yes.

  She sighs. “Was it like the Nicholas Sparks movies?”

  I laugh out loud, then feel bad when her smile slips. “Not exactly. I mean, Owen and I were fourteen the first time we kissed. His mouth crashed against mine and our teeth bumped, which was kind of . . . painful. Eventually, though, we totally learned how to kiss like in the movies.”

  It’s not the whole truth because sometimes Owen’s tongue had a mind of its own and a heart set on my tonsils. He kissed like a teenage boy instead of a movie star, but Aya’s smile reappears, so I let her enjoy the fantasy.

  Just before we reach McDonald’s, a group of boys around our age comes toward us. The one in the lead pushes his way between us and says something to Aya that makes the other boys snicker. One of them trails his fingertips down my braid as he passes and I curl my fingers into my palm to keep from slapping his hand away. My heart races as I take Aya by the arm, pulling her into the restaurant as the boys move on, jostling each other and laughing.

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Something I would not like to repeat,” she says.

  Once, when I was twelve, I was walking home from school when I reached a busy intersection. I started across just a few minutes too late and the light changed when I was about midway. I jogged the remaining steps and when I reached the opposite curb, the guy in a waiting car clapped and yelled, “Nice tits,” as he drove away. I don’t know any girl who doesn’t have a similar story, but mostly they are isolated incidents, not an unrelenting part of our everyday lives. “How do you deal with this?”

  “There is nothing I can do to stop it,” Aya says. “I fear speaking out will make it worse. So I try to ignore and pray that Allah will judge them with the fairness they deserve.�
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  “Guys like that deserve to have their dangly bits snapped off by crocodiles.”

  Her voice is low, her mouth behind her hand, when she says, “Sometimes I pray for that, too.”

  The restaurant resembles just about every other McDonald’s restaurant I’ve ever visited, but the menu items are listed in both Arabic and English, and the girls behind the counter wear tan hijabs that match their uniform baseball caps. The menu also offers Chicken Big Macs and McArabia sandwiches with kofta patties—basically flat meatballs—folded into pita bread. It reminds me of the McRib sandwiches back home, which Hannah always called the McWhy—“Why get it at McDonald’s when it would taste better literally anywhere else?”

  The memory brings a smile to my face, and as Aya orders a McChicken sandwich and a kiwi-flavored drink, I pull out my phone so I can show her a picture of my friends in Ohio. Then I remember this is my Egyptian phone. I have photos of the Nile, the park across from the apartment, and from the Friday Market—even a picture of her brother haggling for a chair—but no pictures of Hannah or Owen. Instead I snap a picture of the menu board to share with Hannah later.

  “As I said before, I am a romantic,” Aya says as we choose a table near the window. “I know the Sparks movies are not real, but they make me feel like such a love is possible. I trust my family to choose a good husband for me, but I would rather find a love match myself. Perhaps at university.”

  “What if he wasn’t Muslim?” I ask, unwrapping my double cheeseburger. It looks the same as the American version. I test-drive a french fry. Tastes the same.

  Aya shakes her head. “No.”